It is autumn; not without,
       &nbsp But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
       &nbsp It is I that have grown old.

Birds are darting through the air,
       &nbsp Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
       &nbsp Save within my lonely breast.

There is silence: the dead leaves
       &nbsp Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves
       &nbsp Comes no murmur from the mill.